


Bourrée

by TheHuggamugCafe



Series: Beggar Dancer [1]
Category: Arsène Lupin - Maurice Leblanc
Genre: Alternate Universe, And the dancer who caught his eye, Arsène’s age has been tweaked, Between a dashing gentleman thief, Dancer!Reader, F/M, Gentleman thief!Arsène, He is in his early 20s, Just a harmless first-time meeting, Novel!Arsène
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 01:37:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18273143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: A gentleman thief isn’t worth his salt if he cannot recognize dance moves—nor is he one to intentionally ignore a soul as beautiful as you.





	Bourrée

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Novacorgi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novacorgi/gifts).



> My first time trying my hand at the dashing gentleman thief hailing from the Maurice Leblanc novels: Arsène Lupin.
> 
> A special shout-out goes to my friends—the marvellous people who made me get around to reading these books. 
> 
> You blessed souls know who you are!

To anyone who was in the bar at the moment, whether it was the barmaids who made their rounds from table to table, the stern-faced but warmhearted owner, or the glassy-eyed patrons, he was nothing more than a silent and eagle-eyed man sitting in the back of a run-down bar, billows of smoke rising up from the pipe he puffed on. A rolled up newspaper was laid off on the table on his right, bearing the title of _Echo dè France_ with its front page headline glaring up into the bleak nothingness of a well-known establishment.

 _Arsène Lupin Eludes Capture Once_ _Again,_ and below that was the caption: _Ganimard Vows To Arrest Him._

A charming piece, fitting for a charismatic detective such as the one and only Ganimard, truly.

In all honesty, the gentleman thief felt that the _Echo dè France’s_ latest report concerning him was little more than a stain on his good name, and boosted Ganimard’s already inflated ego.

Arsène would be one of the first souls to admit that he was indeed many things, and wore just as many identities and took on several different alternate personas, but one thing he wasn’t was a liar.

For a moment and only a moment, the thief’s lips curled over the mouthpiece, wisps of smog rising up from the open end of the tobacco pipe, the rounded bowl stinking of the tobacco he had lit with a match seconds earlier.

It was for a few and fleeting seconds, but his words to Ganimard during his brief—and what a brief stay it had been—stint in jail returned to him, eyes twinkling with mirth underneath the wide brim of his hat as the recollection ran its course through his mind.

“ _You insult me… Arsène Lupin remains in jail for as long as it pleases him, and not a minute longer.”_

Ah, but who was he to waste the refreshing taste of newfound freedom by dwelling on the past?

And nothing could be more true than the current moment, and _certainly_ not when his eyes remained fixed on a certain _mademoiselle_.

 _Step step slide_ —

Sharp eyes followed every movement your body made, quietly but greedily drinking in the sight.

He shouldn’t be staring. He _knew_ he shouldn’t be staring.

The gentlemanly part of his personality scolded him for looking so intently at you—but oh, a part of him that was far less chivalrous reminded him that it was only natural for him to stare.

After all… What sort of man who was worth his salt wilfully ignored the presence of a lady?

Certainly not _him_ , least of all.

He continued to watch, slivers of gray smoke rising from the pipe’s rounded bowl as the stench of tobacco filtered throughout the darkness the bar was cloaked in.

He continued to watch the way the dress fluttered over your legs, offering him—and the other male patrons of the dinky establishment, reeking of stale smoke and cheap alcohol—a teasing glimpse of skin that shone in the dim luminescence of moonlight pouring in from an adjacent window.

Everything about you was captivating.

The way the dress’s low-priced fabric clung to you in all the right places, gently highlighting your figure.

The way your body moved to music only you were capable of hearing, softly swaying your clothed hips to a silent tune.

The way the low-budget heels of your shoes clicked as you danced on the small stage, moving enchantingly well and completely in sync with your body’s movements.

The way your fingers gripped a hold of your dress in one hand, carefully but sensually offering him—and the other patrons, all glassy-eyed and stinking of tobacco—a further teasing glimpse of your thighs before, finally, the fabric was tugged back in place.

The way your free hand held a dancing fan close to your face, casting a silhouette over your face.

It was held in such a way that only your eyes peeked out from behind the object you held, the cheaply made fabric of the black gloves you wore complimented the standard red dancing fan.

Arsène was more than content to simply watch you from the shadows, his keen stare quietly observing your figure as you continued to dance to some silent rhythm.

Again, he felt his lips curling over the pipe stuck between his lips.

The stink of cheap tobacco hung in the atmosphere of the hole-in-the-wall bar.

The stench of alcohol that may as well have been watered down swill lingered.

The smell of sweating skin reeked like a foul-smelling cologne prevailed.

And yet… And yet…

Arsène Lupin continued to calmly smoke his tobacco pipe, lips curled to the smallest of smiles.

The renowned gentleman thief’s eyes shone with merriment, sharp irises shimmering with a light of entertainment.

Yes, he knew the emotion that ran its course through his veins, pumping him with the enthralling poison of nostalgia.

He did not know who you were, oh no—but he was certain that he had seen you somewhere before.

Perhaps he had caught a glimpse of you when he was out one day, scouting for the target of his latest heist? And if he had…

A flash of white broke the murky shadows where he sat, wisps of gray smoke rising up from his tobacco pipe as his teeth were bared in a tiny grin.

He watched as your dance reached its crescendo, the rhythm and the unseen melody that you danced to ending in a flurry of red and black, hips that rolled oh so perfectly and heels that hit the stage’s grimy wood with practised precision. The way you danced so verily told him that your body’s natural movements could only come from _years_ of austere instruction, hard-boiled teachers with eagle-eyed glares, and lessons that were all but pounded into your beautiful soul until you could do it without someone’s stern guidance.

Finally, your performance was polished off with one last teasing show of skin that glistened with sweat underneath the moonlight—and more skin was shown as you dipped to a graceful bow, your fan snapping shut as you curtsied to the small audience. His observant eyes marvelled in the way your gloved fingers clutched at the second-rate fabric of your dress, and whenever his eyes just so happened to land on bare flesh, he saw how your skin _glowed_ with perspiration.

He saw how your cheeks were flushed with a hint of rose, doing wonders for your complexion.

He caught tiny beads of sweat trailing down your fatigued visage, shimmering in the moonlight that bathed your stationary figure.

He watched as you refused to step down from the stage to rest—and he watched as some patrons rose from their seats, their balance was questionable as they staggered to where you were on stage.

Amused, the gentleman thief eyed the other, mostly older men as they deposited meagre tips into the raggedy-looking bowler hat that was set down in front of you.

Coins clinked and clattered as they were tossed into the upside-down hat, and he took a moment to frown at the dismal tips your beautiful stage show had earned.

Surely these men could afford to tip you just a bit more? Not only that, but he felt that their offerings to you were little more than pocket change.

A warm chuckle slipped past his lips as the frown curled up to a grin, raising his hands and bringing them together in a round of applause.

He couldn’t help but notice how his heart picked up a few beats as your eyes landed on him, silently watching as he was the only man in the run-down bar who offered praise at your little show.

The drunken cheers of the other men fell on largely deaf ears as they muttered amongst themselves, glassy eyes greedily drinking in your figure—and once more, a small surge of elation hit him as the telltale creak of a rickety chair signalled that he was on the move.

He noticed how your eyes hadn’t left him for even a second, and he couldn’t help himself from feeling the tiniest prick of pride at that fact.

Arsène chose to linger back, waiting and watching as the other men left the bar, staggering out the doorway and into the cool night.

A sigh made him glance back at you, watching as you stooped down to collect the bowler hat—only to stop when a modest tip was deposited.

Your eyes watched as coins rained down into the bowler hat, stopping after a few moments. A breathy gasp left you as your gloved fingers gripped the tattered hat, peering into the hat as if you couldn’t believe your eyes.

Slowly, oh so slowly, your face was raised and your chin tilted up so that you stared him fully in the face.

“Sir, I…”

You paused, pursing your lips as you shook your head.

“…This is too much. I cannot take your money. Please take it back.”

“No, no. A lady’s performance should be rewarded properly—and if I may say so, your show was quite stunning, my dear.”

He took a moment to bathe in satisfaction, watching as your cheeks darkened with a deeper splash of rose pink.

“May I know your name, my lady…?”

Silence.

Hesitation rocketed through you, staring up into the man’s face and watching him as he watched you.

“It is improper for a man to ask a lady for her name, especially when he hasn’t even introduced himself first. Unless…”

You paused, pursing your lips to a thin line as your brows furrowed.

“Your name is no good, sir…?”

Arsène couldn’t help but let out a laugh, the bout of chuckles rumbling deep in his chest as he stopped to smile down at you.

“Touché. My apologies. However… I do applaud you for the lovely show.”

“Thank you. And…”

Once more, you hesitated, but for a different reason this time.

“…Thank you for your tip. It is kind of you—”

You were cut off, but by a murmur of, “Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, sir…?”

You felt one of your gloved hands being taken in a careful, gentle manner, held in another gloved hand that was raised to the man’s mouth—and a kiss that was so faint, so light was placed on your knuckles that you shouldn’t have felt it.

You did feel it. You knew you did and you had a feeling that he knew you felt it.

The barely-there brush of lips ghosting over your covered knuckles, your eyes and the man’s eyes never looking away as a soft kiss blessed the cotton material that shielded your skin.

“When will I see you again, my lady…?”

You took a moment to recover from the unexpected kiss and the lingering effect of surprise that washed over you, coupled with the small waves of embarrassment and flattery.

“I do not know, sir. I come here whenever I find the time to.”

“Then I hope that when I find myself here, I will see you.”

You said nothing but muttered a soft, “Excuse me, I must be going” as you slowly, carefully pulled your hand away from his lips and from his hand.

You didn’t know him; he was nothing more than a stranger to you.

A stranger who had enjoyed your performance.

A stranger who had applauded when no one else had.

A stranger who had tipped you generously, offering you more than the other men’s tips had altogether.

And above everything else…

A stranger who had _kissed your knuckles_ and _thanked you_ for the show.

You clutched the ratty-looking hat to your chest as you edged closer to the bar’s entrance, pausing to spare him one last glance before you disappeared from his sight as you left and rounded a corner.

Arsène lingered, standing near the stage where you had been standing just moments ago.

The stench of smoke continued to rise up from the tobacco pipe he smoked, raising a hand to pull it out and breathe a huff of foul-smelling gray smog.

 _Ah, mademoiselle… A stunning performance. Why, I do not think even_ I _could steal you._

Or _… Could he_?

His mouth curled over the stick of the pipe as it was returned to between his lips, flashing a hint of pearly whites as he grinned a charming little smile.

_I look forward to our next meeting. I wonder who you truly are…?_


End file.
